


Swallowed by Feelings

by Lizzy0305



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Bottom John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Male Slash, New Year's Eve, Red Pants, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzy0305/pseuds/Lizzy0305
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always had his issues with feelings however usually he could manage. But thanks to a few glasses of brandy and a curious John Watson he suddenly finds himself in a swirl of emotions which he's not able to handle. John has to deal with Sherlock's mood-swings between despair, longing, and pure lust meanwhile he has his own emotions to deal with. Explicit slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Despair and affection

It had happened once before. Just once in his whole life. Only that one time, had he been able to let his feelings swallow him, and only that time let he down all his barriers. It was the night when he almost lost John. When Moriarty almost took away the only thing, what mattered to him in this whole boring life.

He couldn't sleep that night. Not with the image of John being threatened hovering in his mind. Usually these kind of things didn't matter to him, but that night he had a few drinks, just enough, so his hidden feelings would rise to the surface, harbouring his every waking hour.

He was staring out of the window, his violin in his hands, a minute ago he was playing but the beautiful music stuck at its zenith, leaving a silent room behind. He didn't hear the soft noises of the outside world, neither did he take in the footsteps behind him. He was lost in his thoughts, in his nightmarish fantasies of "what could have happened".

A warm hand gripped his shoulder and he jumped slightly, turning around with elevated heartbeat.

"Are you alright? I called for you at least three times."

The man from his previous fantasies stood behind him, safe and sound, untouched and unharmed, not even with a scratch. Why did he still feel the need to do something, to murder the man, who threatened John? Why was he still shaking from all the unanalysed emotion swirling inside him?

"I was thinking." He said shortly, reaching for another glass and the bottle of brandy. He gave the half full glass to John, trying hard not to notice that John clearly just get out of the bed, his short hair ruffled, wearing only shorts.

"Yes, I heard that." John answered easily, with a hint of smile in his voice.

Sherlock looked up and raised an eyebrow. John, as a response, looked at the violin then back at the detective.

"Oh right, the violin. I woke you." It was pointless to ask.

"Never mind, I'm used to it." This time John smiled, and Sherlock was slightly glad that he didn't actually hear any sign of sarcasm in that sentence.

"I see you're half ready for bed, what keeps you up this late then?" John asked casually, clinking his glass to Sherlock's before taking as sip. Sherlock looked down on himself and realized he was wearing his shirt loosely and unbuttoned. He didn't even remember when he did that.

He closed his eyes for a second before answering "Moriarty." That was enough; he probably shouldn't let John know about what a disturbed mind he had. However if someone knew it perfectly, it probably was John Watson.

"Don't mind that psychopath now, Sherlock. Get some sleep. We deal with him later, when he shows up again. And we deal with him together. Don't try to save the whole world on you own." With that, John drank his brandy and turned around.

Sherlock wanted to scream at the man in front of him he wanted to shout in his face all sorts of things he didn't really understand himself. He wanted to say _I don't want to save the whole world, but only_ you. He wanted to say _I can't sleep until Moriarty lives and wants to kill you_.

But he didn't say a word but moved instead. Before John could get any further, his hands unwillingly rose up and he touched John's waist. That made the doctor stop but that wasn't enough for Sherlock. His hands slithered up on John's back. He stepped a bit closer and stopped his hands on John's shoulder-blades. He leaned his forehead against John's head, his warm breathing caressed the other man's neck.

"Sherlock, what…?"

"Shh… Just let me… Please, just let me hug you for a moment." His voice was rough and broken.

Sherlock enjoyed the sensation of warm flesh under his fingers; it made him aware that John was alive, that the danger was over, even if it was just for now. But the moment was over, John moved away and he felt a sudden rush of disappointment burning his heart.

But John didn't step away from him, he only turned towards him.

"You idiot." He said quietly in a soft, caring voice. "That's not how you hug." And with that he slid his hands around Sherlock, pulling him in a warm, strong embrace.

Sherlock felt as John's hand slid under his shirt and touched his cold skin. Though the arms were tightly around him, he still felt the hug soft and tender. He enjoyed how John held him close, his warmness invading his cold, worrying heart. The gently caressing hands on his back, the warm breathing on his neck and the very presence of his only friend loosened the chains on his heart. Suddenly he felt all his previous thoughts flying out of his head.

Yes, together. Together everything will be better.


	2. Alcohol and Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here is the next chapter, with less emotion and more slash, spiced with a drop of brandy. Because sometimes even the greatest minds need a catalyst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the next chapter, with less emotion and more slash, spiced with a drop of brandy. Because sometimes even the greatest minds need a catalyst.

And here he was again. New Year's Eve. The snow was slowly falling outside; the tiny white spots swirled in the gentle wind. Fireworks exploded in every ten minutes, shorter, longer, colourful flashes outside the window; but even the distant noise of the explosions couldn't disturb their peace and comfort.

They had a long night; Sherlock thought even longer than expected. It was only two in the morning but he expected himself to be alone two hours earlier. Instead of bed, he had a comfortable armchair and instead of loneliness, he had John Watson and a glass of brandy.

They already finished a bottle of Merlot before and now they were slowly sipping the burning brown liquid while talking about everything. Literally everything. They wandered from the topic of stars to cases, then to brothers with power complex and sisters with alcohol problem. They just talked and talked, like never before.

Sherlock knew why he opened up this much to John. No, it wasn't the alcohol, or not just that. It was because of that few minutes in the kitchen, right after John suggested that Mrs Hudson should spend some day away from Baker Street.

Why then? It is simple.

Because that was the moment when he first in his life felt, actually _felt_ , that he had a family. People, who accepted him the way he was, and whom he wanted to protect even if it cost his life. It was a weird, unusual moment actually, and even with his intellectual, or especially with his intellectual, it was hard to explain why exactly had he had this feeling back then.

"Do you hear me?" John asked, laughing, his legs thrown over the arm of the chair.

"No, sorry." He shook his head.

John laughed again and shook his empty glass.

"Be a lamb and pass that bottle, would you."

Sherlock poured more brandy into their glasses. "Cheers." They said in synchrony and as their glasses clinked, another firework blasted off outside.

"Tell me something Sherlock…" John leaned back on the chair, "Why do you never text her back? She… _flirted_ with you but you've never texted her back. Why?"

"Her?" Sherlock asked, knowing exactly, who John meant.

"Don't do that."

"Why should I text her?"

"Because you can't walk away from the market without commenting everything and everyone you see and now there is a woman, whom you saw naked for the first time, who is a dominatrix, who drugged you, who faked her death but then told you she was actually still alive. You always respond, but not now. Why?"

"John… If I didn't know you better I might think you're jealous. And I did text her. Just today. See, there is no case here." Sherlock said, waving casually with his hand, and then looked out the window. He hoped John wouldn't force on the question as he didn't have a real answer. He hated feelings; they made everything so complicated.

"I'm… I'm not jealous." John said, drinking a bit from his brandy. Neither of them spoke, Sherlock was still staring out the window, while John was looking at him, gazing at the shape of his face, the line of his nose and cheekbones, the outlines of his lips.

"What?" Sherlock suddenly asked, looking right in his eyes.

John swiftly looked elsewhere, though he was sure Sherlock knew he was staring at him. Slightly blushing, he realized he had just too much alcohol in his system to actually consider saying out loud what he was thinking of just a minute ago.

He bent forward, and placed his glass on his knee. "Can I ask you something Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and leaned back in his chair. "Whatever you want, my dear John."

John hesitated for a moment and his gaze once again shifted down from Sherlock's eyes. As the man was comfortably sitting with his legs apart, John unwillingly followed the curves of his body; the slim hips, the long thighs and even the bulge between them.

When he realized what he was looking at, he reluctantly licked his lips then suddenly, as if waking up from a daydream he shook his head slightly and looked in the bright, grey eyes.

"Have you ever had someone?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose even higher, almost comically high as he slowly gulped; but he didn't say anything and the silence deepened.

John was just about to apologies and call it a night when Sherlock quickly emptied his glass and said slowly, "You mean…?"

"Well… girlfriend, boyfriend… anything in between. A relationship."

"John, you know it well, how hard it is to live with me; other than you and Mrs Hudson no one really can bear me for more than _ten minutes_."

"Well, that's… true, I guess"

"That should answer your question." Sherlock nodded.

"And love? Or affection? Not even unrequired?" John asked, already assuming the answer. But it wasn't what he expected.

"Once. I think." Sherlock murmured but didn't look John in the eyes.

"Was it a woman or a man?" John went on, not knowing himself, what made him ask all these questions.

"Man."

"So you're… gay?" he gulped.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock said, and finally his eyes turned towards John.

"Of course it mat-"

"No it doesn't. I feel affection towards someone who arouses me, excites me, who makes me feel alive. The _gender_ doesn't matter.

"Okay and what about…" John had to take a deep breath before going on. "…sex?"

Piercing gaze met John's, and for a moment, even though the hazy fog of alcohol in his mind, he felt intimated and aroused. He felt like he was trying to tame a wild jaguar and it excited him in a whole new level.

"You're going too far, John."

"Have you every slept with someone?" John resisted, leaning even closer towards Sherlock.

"I'm… I'm familiar with the method and the chemistry of it but no, I've never slept with anyone."

"I can't believe it…" John murmured and once again, Sherlock's eyebrow shot up.

"I mean… You of all people…" And for a split second he thought _with that body, with those cheekbones, with that pair of eyes and with that deep, smooth voice? No one would ever say no to this man._ But he said instead, "With your insatiable curiosity?"

"I know everything about it, and that is enough." Sherlock said, standing up and walking to the windows. If he was watching the street or the people or the fireworks, John didn't know.

"That shouldn't be enough. Do you remember when you said you don't care about the stars and planets but that doesn't mean you can't appreciate them? Saying this is enough for you, is like knowing everything about the universe, but never taking a minute to look up the sky at night and admire the stars…"

Even in the cosy darkness that surrounded them, John could see that Sherlock flushed, his cheeks turned slightly pink and he knew he was right.

"And what about you, John? I've heard you state more than once you are not gay. Have you never wandered to the other side, just out of curiosity?" Sherlock said defiantly, looking straight in John's blue eyes.

"No." John answered as he stood up too; the alcohol making him dizzy for a second. He placed his glass on the floor as he walked to Sherlock, who meanwhile turned his back on him again.

"And have _you_ never been curious how it would be?" Sherlock asked quietly towards the window.

John reached out his hand and clasped Sherlock's shoulder. He stepped even closer as he turned the other man around, whispering, "Yes, I have." and with that he pulled Sherlock in a tender kiss.

He was surprised by every motion he made in the last few seconds but at this moment he didn't have any regret. Sherlock's kiss was sweet and gentle; unsure but needy. And he loved it more than he dared admit.

As staring out of the window a minute ago, Sherlock noticed the approaching footsteps and he even perceived his own, highly elevated heartbeat before a strong hand turned him around and lips met his for a gentle kiss.

_This couldn't be real, why would John do such thing_ , he asked himself as his hand clasp John's neck pushing him slightly away. Was it curiosity? Simply alcohol? Or _pity_? His heart clenched.

"I don't need your pity." He growled, his face turning into a mask of anger.

"It's not pity," John murmured, his thumb trailing the lines of Sherlock's lips. "It's satisfying curiosity."

"Come on John, why would you be this curious so suddenly?"

"I… always were. I was in the military for god's sake. Things happen there, Sherlock, you know it too. Not to me, but they happen. I've seen things there and then I've seen things here at home, too. You basically give a shit if I see you just out of bed, naked, making your coffee. You probably don't even notice me." John whispered, not being able to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's lips. "But I saw you Sherlock, and what I've seen affected me in such ways I've never experienced. And a part of me even _liked_ it."

"What if I don't want this?" Sherlock asked but the anger disappeared from his face as the gentle fingers caressed him. His lips parted and he was surprised to feel John sliding his thumb slightly further in. Against his better judgment, knowing exactly that this was the wrong move to make, he licked the finger before kissing it slowly.

"I dare you to look me in the eye and say you don't want to do this." John smirked.

"I don't want to do this." Sherlock stated, looking right into the piercing blue eyes.

John's left hand slid to Sherlock's shirt, pulling him closer. "That, Sherlock Holmes…" he whispered, as his right moved to Sherlock's neck, "…is a fucking…", his grip tightened as their lips became only slightly apart, " _Lie_." he groaned, kissing Sherlock once again, passionately and wildly this time, knowing exactly he was right.

Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest as he let John's tongue slid into his mouth. His mind still said this was a bad idea but its voice was quieter by every passing second, by every sweet kiss John gave him.

People called him mad all the time, but his usual behaviour was nothing compared to what emotions whirled in him right now. This, this was the real madness, standing at the window and kissing his only friend, feeling tempted to do all the things he sometimes dreamed about, things he never really wanted or just didn't know he wanted up until now, up until the first kiss John placed on his lips, because that one motion made him aware of all the dirty little desires he managed to lock in the bottom of his heart.

And naturally all these cravings didn't just surfaced slowly so that he could analyse them, no, they broke free at once.

He turned them around and pushed John's body back, knocking over his music stand. All his music scattered in the living room but he couldn't care less. They reached something hard, it was his table. Lips still sealed on John's mouth he swept his hand over the desk, pushing down everything, what just a few moments ago meant some kind of importance to him. But not anymore; now the only thing that mattered was to grab John's thighs and smash him on the table. The doctor's back crushed firmly against the wall, so hard that he could hear John's surprised gasps, and with that the last string that tied him to reality ripped too.

He grabbed John's hands and raised them over the man's head, holding them tight there against the wall. He leaned slightly back, just enough so that their kiss would be stopped. John instantly bent towards him, trying to catch his lips with teeth, but Sherlock didn't let him.

"Slowly…" Sherlock groaned, his voice filled with desire.

"No…" John wined impatiently but Sherlock held his hand firm singlehandedly while his right unbuttoned John's chequered shirt. He pushed the fabric away and lowered his lips over the sweet skin of John Watson, sucking on his neck, nipping on the red marks he just made.

John's head fell back, knocking against the wall hard. Gasping, he tried to free his hands but the sensation of Sherlock's mouth on him was just way too tempting to actually put any effort in the struggling.

Sherlock reached John's pink nipple and without any hesitation he bit it, hard enough that it would hurt but still gentle enough so that the pain would made John whimper with pleasure.

"Shit, Sherlock!" John cried out, his back arching towards the detective.

"Enjoying the firm hands of a man, are you John?" Sherlock asked smirking at him, his tongue sliding over and over his erected nipple.

"God, yes." John moaned with eyes closed tightly as suddenly Sherlock's hand slid over his other side, the man's thumb caressing his left nipple roughly.

Sherlock smiled smugly for a brief second then went back to licking John's body, tasting every millimetre of him. Meanwhile his hand moved again, slithering slowly down, caressing gently, exploring the yet untouched areas. Soon he reached John's pants but he didn't stop. Without the slightest hesitation he opened the buttons one after the other. He kissed John harshly as he slid his hand under the other man's jeans, caressing his erection through his red pants.

John gasped loudly into Sherlock's mouth, unable to kiss him back, to do anything else just moan in ecstasy. But the hand was gone as Sherlock tried to get him out of his underwear as soon as possible.

Sherlock let go of John's hand and pulled down his pants as much as he could. But then suddenly his raw emotions slowed down and he looked into John's eyes before his hand slowly slithered over his bare manhood which was already hard like steel.

Sherlock watched John as he throw his head back again, panting heavily as pleasure took over his body. With a swift motion he lowered his head over John's lap but a firm grip in his hair prevented him from taking John's hard manhood between his swollen lips.

"You don't have to…" John gasped, and Sherlock saw in his eyes that what he really wanted to say was the exact opposite.

"I thought this night was about satisfying curiosity." Sherlock said just for the sake of argument as he didn't have the slightest intention of not taking John in his mouth. "I'm curious about how you would taste, how it would feel to lick your whole length from the bottom to the top and I'm curious, how much I would like the sensation of sucking on your erection while listening to your wild cries. Tell me what you _really_ want, John Watson."

"I want you to suck my cock until I came into your mouth." John said determined after long seconds.

Sherlock smirked and lowered his head. He licked the tip, testing, tasting John. It was much better than he ever expected it. He was perfectly familiar with the anatomy, he knew the Latin name of every millimetre he tasted, as his tongue slid further down on John's lengths, but tasting it was completely new experience, a whole different world. He knew how the skin was soft over the rigid flesh; he held his member more than a million times before, even when it was hard. Tasting it, sliding his tongue over and over it was however something else, something new and he liked it. Not to mention how much John's loud gasps and moans turned him on. He loved making people lose control and this, _this_ was a perfect way to make John lose his.

"Keep talking." Sherlock whispered with lust filled voice.

"I… want… I want you to hold me hard. I don't want anything to be gentle, I want it hard. Hard like you mean it, rough as if this would be your last night on Earth and you want to make the very best out of it." John moaned, his hands grasping Sherlock's black curls tightly.

"Jeeezus, I want you to… I want your beautiful lips on my cock and I want you to look in my eyes when you make me come so that I can't forget, not for even a second that that mouth around my erection doesn't belong to a random woman but to you, to a man, to Sherlock _Fucking_ Holmes. I want your long, slim and elegant fingers to be inside me when I come, moving as if it would be your cock. But most importantly I want you to be inside me, furiously moving, thrusting, _grinding_ me into the bed; I want you to fuck the life out of me."

Sherlock was groaning loudly while listening to John. He never even imagined his doctor to be this dirty and erotic, but his rigid erection which he could hardly keep in his pants and his pounding heartbeat told him otherwise. He wanted to make John lose control but if this continues he will be the one not able to hold back, and gratify John's desire right there and exactly how the good doctor wanted: rough and lustful.

With darkness in his bright grey eyes, he met John's yearning gaze as he murmured quietly " _Soon_." Then he turned all his attention back to the hard manhood between his lips, but he didn't look away. No, because he wanted John to know who exactly was doing this to him.

Same as how Sherlock knew precisely that it was John, _only_ John who turned him hard like never before, who messed up his so well organized thoughts, who turned his calm mind into a swirling dark hole. He knew his mind was still screaming somewhere deep, and he knew he reached the point of no return long ago, probably at their first kiss and from now on, nothing will be the same. He knew how his right mind yelled desperately that don't do this, stop the madness now or things will eventually get worse. He could hear the imaginary cries of his brain because it already knew what Sherlock tried to repress really badly: that this wasn't just satisfying curiosity, that his mouth wasn't moving on John's cock because of the alcohol, that tomorrow, when John will return to his old self and this night will be something they won't ever talk about again, he will feel again and the pain will be close to unbearable. But he didn't listen to the shouts.

The only thing he heard was John's cries, filled with pleasure, his fast panting, and his sweet gasps of "Sherlock". Voices that took away his mind, sounds that made all his secret cravings surface.

Not caring where his mouth was before, he grabbed John's neck with his left, and kissed him, while his right was still moving on John's hardness. He leaned slightly back and took his middle finger into his mouth. Waiting until John's attention turned towards him, he licked his finger lightly. He smiled when he saw the realization on John's face, about where that finger will be shortly. But suddenly the good doctor grabbed his hand and took it into his own mouth, sucking on it hard, wetting it. He let John's pink tongue slide on his finger until he judged it slippery enough then lowered his hand to John's entrance.

There was short moment, when looking into each other's eyes a silent agreement formed between them about that there was no stopping from here. Then Sherlock slid the tip of his finger in.

John cried out as the long finger stretched him and the detective froze.

"Does it hurt that badly?" He asked.

"It… fucking hurts." John nodded, but his hips moved slightly and his gasp didn't sound entirely painful. "It's weird, it hurts but it's still… ah… good." He almost moaned the last word as Sherlock started moving again, suspecting what John wanted to say.

And when even Sherlock's mouth return over John's manhood, Sherlock couldn't detect actual pain in John's voice anymore, just that sweet pain, the one that drives you crazy but you just don't seem to ever get enough of.

And Sherlock sucked him, hard as he could, his left gripping John's shaft with the same intensity, while his middle finger moved in the good doctor fast and enthusiastic.

John tasted good in his mouth, different, new, and exciting but he liked it. However all his senses sharpened, not just his taste. He heard John louder than anyone would expect, Sherlock almost wondered how so Mrs Hudson didn't come up asking what they were doing. There were also the smells; sex and sweat, one new and one which he was already familiar only this time it was in a whole new context, turning him on even more.

Adding one more finger, John's moans became even more vivid and noisy. Not that Sherlock mind it though, the good doctor was a pleasure to listen to as he get closer and closer to climax. He couldn't utter comprehensive words only syllables but as Sherlock fastened his speed even the syllables became senseless moans and loud gasps of intense pleasure.

As John put his legs around his back, Sherlock added one more finger, hitting exactly John's prostate and now John's was crying, shouting loudly, shaking under him. Wriggling, John moved up and down on his fingers, and between his mouth and Sherlock did his best to swallow his long and hard manhood as deep as he could.

John moaned something and it resembled to his name, or at least to the first syllable of his name. That and the fact that John was now almost uncontrollably moving under him, made him think that John wanted to tell him that he was close to climaxing. As if it wouldn't be _obvious_. He moved even faster and tried to suck John's cock even harder but the hands in his hair tightened its grip almost painfully.

"No…" John mumbled through gritted teeth "I'm… co-" And that was as far as John could go, because Sherlock looked him deep in the eyes and that devastating fire he saw in the grey eyes made him come with a feverish cry. His body twisted several times as he came but Sherlock kept his lips locked around his manhood, and he still didn't stop sucking him, neither did the long finger's stop moving inside him.

Minutes must have passed by when John finally came to his senses again. Sherlock was kissing his neck, teasing, nipping on his skin.

"I thought…" John started his voice much deeper and rougher than usual. "I thought you never did this before."

"I did not. Why, was it not… I would say satisfying, but it clearly _was_ satisfying so let's say enjoyable?" Sherlock asked, and when looking at him John could see that under the mask of serenity, Sherlock was actually truly worried about his performance.

So instead of telling him how good he was, John simply grabbed Sherlock by his hair, pulled him close, and kissed him madly and wildly, just exactly how he felt while the detective had his lips on his erection and his fingers in his back.

As they kissed, Sherlock came closer to him with his whole body and John could feel his hardness pressing firmly to him. Suddenly a thought occured to him about how much he wanted to feel Sherlock's manhood inside him, moving fast just as his fingers did moments ago. A wave of desire rushed through him again, almost as intensive as his orgasm and he seized Sherlock's ass, pressing their bodies together even more tightly, grinding his bare groin to Sherlock's erection.

With a sudden move Sherlock turned him around and pressed him to the table. He grabbed John by his chin and raised it up, turning it a bit sideways, so that he could nib on his neck as his crutch was rhythmically thrusting forward. John meanwhile pressed back and groaned wildly in synchrony with Sherlock as their bodies crashed fervently.

"How does it feel so far…," Sherlock asked teasing, "…your first time with a man?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hold back, tell me what you think. Smutty enough? Or you would like more emotions? Less emotions? More brandy maybe? How many chapters would you like to read? I'm thinking about 4 or 5. Enough? More? Speak to me, after all I'm here to entertain you guys!
> 
> Hugs!


	3. Lust and Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot? What plot? Don't be ridiculous, we don't serve that here.

John was on his bed. He had no idea how on Earth he got there, but suddenly he found himself smacked on his bed, utterly naked. He looked up; Sherlock was standing at the end of the bed, his lean figure only a dark shadow in the dimly lit room.

"Remove your clothes Sherlock." John said determined as he looked at the fully clothed detective. In a normal situation he would be completely ashamed of his own bareness, and never dare be this demanding, especially not wit h Sherlock Holmes. No, if this would be normal, he would be clothed, or at least not completely naked, and there would be a woman on this bed with him. A brunette, maybe a black haired girl, looking gorgeous.

But life with Sherlock Holmes couldn't be described as normal; it was the exact opposite of normal. It was fast, surprising, mad, with full of excitement and adventure.

And that was exactly why John was right now laying butt naked on his bed, with a _man_ standing in front of him, slowly removing his shirt, sliding it seductively down his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground with an almost silent swish. If things were normal, he would be running away now, running fast as possible, because that predator look on Sherlock's face didn't promise anything good.

But this was madness. So he leaned on his elbows, tucked one of his legs and waited for his detective to unbuckle his belt. He was smirking as the black pants fell off of Sherlock and he stepped out of them. He was smiling wildly because Sherlock looked _gorgeous_ in front of him and he couldn't wait to touch that marble skin.

The detective seemed now slightly awkward as he was standing at the edge of the bed, wearing only a white pair of boxers which didn't manage to cover his excitement. But then, he teasingly slithered his hands over his chest, up and down, and even further down, over his trapped manhood, lolling his head back with pleasure.

John couldn't help but laugh as he noticed the little figure on the front of the underwear.

"Bees?"

"I love bees." Came the smug answer. "Problem?"

"Just one, but I can redress that quickly." The good doctor said sitting up, climbing on all four towards Sherlock. As he reached him, he kneeled up and placed his hands on Sherlock's waist. Fingers slid into his hair as his lips went around the detective's erect nipple, and his hands traced Sherlock's back, feeling the projecting shoulder blades, the smooth waist and the firm butt. He drove his fingers under the boxer's soft fabric, and Sherlock moaned while his muscles stiffened beneath John's touch.

His lips wandered on Sherlock's upper body, sucking on his pure, white skin, leaving behind deep red marks. John knew these will be visible even the next morning and this thought somewhere deep inside filled him with satisfaction.

His mouth moved upwards until he reached that glorious neck. His tongue darted out and he licked the whole length of that beautiful line of alabaster skin. This was one of his favourite parts of Sherlock's body, his neckline. He moaned as he drove his wet tongue over and over it, as his teeth scraped the soft skin.

He let his right slide among Sherlock's silky, dark curls, while his left stayed under the pants, pulling Sherlock closer, until their bodies tensed against each other. As Sherlock' erection was pressed to his bare manhood, a lightning like feeling shook every bit of his body, making him more exited with every second.

Sherlock clasped his face and pulled it up for a heated kiss and John slowly slid two-two fingers each side under the edge of the detective's white boxer. With his pointing and middle fingers he started sliding down the only clothe left on the other man, while his tongue moved wildly between Sherlock's sweet lips.

He heard Sherlock's aroused gasp as the cold air touched his erection. He felt the hard, slightly wet manhood press against his groin and he moved while he moaned fervently into the other man's mouth.

The white pants with the cute little bee fell to the floor and Sherlock stepped out of that too. John leaned back, taking in every detail of this man in front of him. As Sherlock stood before him, entirely naked, looking shyly at his own body, his white skin vibrating in the deep darkness, John sat back on the bed, and his hand wandered over his own erection, caressing himself lightly and languidly. As his fingers were sliding on his arousing manhood, he didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock, no, he watched the great detective becoming redder by every stroke he made on himself.

Sherlock crawled on the bed, coming towards the doctor on all four, just like a panther, and John could almost hear the man purring. His eyes were fixed on John's hand, as it moved up and down on his rigid member. Suddenly his head followed his gaze and his soft, hot lips were once again around the wet tip of John's erection. The doctor hissed loudly as he felt the fervent sucking on the sensitive skin while his hips bucked up involuntary.

But John didn't let Sherlock linger there for much; he grabbed into his black mane and pulled him up. Sherlock's mouth was shiny most probably because of precum and before John could stop himself, he leaned in and licked it down from Sherlock's swollen lips, tasting himself. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, before he smashed him wildly to the bed, with teeth biting passionately into his lips.

As they kissed each other ardently their hands roamed on the other's body, fingernails plunging into soft skin. Their breaching hitched each time when their bare manhood were finally sliding against the other.

And John knew he was lost. Lost in Sherlock, lost in these feelings, because he had never in his life felt anything like this. As if he just woke up from a dull dream, and fell right in the middle of the vivid reality, with Sherlock Holmes in the middle. This was so different than anything he'd ever done before, and just so much better. Sometimes during a hazy morning, after having some misty dreams he never remembered afterwards, did he feel something similar, but even that wasn't this remarkable, this intense. He knew he will never return to his old sexual preferences because nothing, _nothing_ can top this. He didn't know of it would be the same having sex with other man, but he doubted. He was sure no man could make him this fierce, except the one, who was moving on top of him at this moment, right between his tucked legs, whose hard erection was pushing against his own, whose long, elegant fingers were now shaking as they seized his thigh, pulling it even more to the side.

His left slithered between Sherlock's buttocks and as the detective felt the fingers he groaned deeply, dropping his head back, flashing his long neckline. John bit wildly into the soft white skin as he swiftly turned them around because there was something he wanted to do since long.

He sat up on Sherlock's lap and looked at the man beneath him. His gaze was focused on the hazy yet sharp grey eyes, on the beautiful and elegant cheekbones, on the swollen, wet lips, on the long neckline, covered in red biting marks.

"John…" Sherlock spoke up and John had to close his eyes in please because Sherlock's voice was even deeper, even rougher even sexier as before.

"Feel me, John!" Sherlock whispered hoarsely, moving John's hand over his body.

John's eyes shifted over the hairless chest, and this time his hands followed his look as it wandered over the pink nipples and the projecting ribs, his fingers moving over every bone, until they reached the stiff muscles, rising and falling fast beneath his stroke.

"Touch me, John!" Sherlock groaned, his hands grasping into the navy blue sheets.

And John's hands slithered even further down, his thumbs caressing the detective's belly button and below that, carefully not to touch yet the erected manhood lying on Sherlock's stomach. He traced its outline while gasping from the beautifulness that was Sherlock Holmes, thrashing his lean body under him, moaning fervently.

Suddenly Sherlock grabbed his arm and looked at him as if he had yet another order for John, but then he hesitated and looked shyly away. John kept looking, his eyes searching for the other's gaze to meet his but Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the lamp on the nightstand, his cheeks bright red, his lips pressed into a thin line.

John moved swiftly, he lowered himself, while his fingers enclosed the hard erection and started stroking it lightly. Sherlock's gaze was right at that second on him, staring at him from behind half lidded eyes. John bit his lower lip, because he knew what Sherlock wanted to say before even a syllable could leave the detective's swollen lips.

"Taste me, John!" Sherlock moaned but John already took his manhood into his mouth and started sucking it. His hands pushing Sherlock's legs apart by the knees, while his tongue was sliding around and over the tip, wetting it, before sliding the whole manhood deep inside his mouth, sucking hard.

Animalistic moans formed deep in his throat as his tongue flicked over the soft tip of Sherlock's erection. He never imagined this could feel great, he always thought this was something only the receiving half enjoyed, but no. He groaned because he relished the sensation of the hard manhood sliding beneath his fingers and tongue, as the velvet, pink flesh tasted in his mouth.

As he was teasing Sherlock, the man was thrusting into his mouth, his back curving on the bed, his hands gripping into John's pillow, almost tearing it apart. His legs struggling against the restrain, but John could hold him easily in one place while his mouth was moving on him wildly and ardently, lustfully sucking and licking the long and rigid member.

John let his canine slid along the detective's long arousal, lightly, barely touching the sensitive surface but Sherlock still jumped from the sensation, his upper body tensing, arching away from the sheets, crying up wildly, lustfully.

After crushing back between the soft pillows, Sherlock covered his face with an arm, gasping for air and John reminded himself that he was the first man, who touched Sherlock here, his lips were the first ones sucking on this long, erect manhood, his tongue was the first one ever to lick along the wet manhood and that made his heart race with unbearable speed.

The embarrassment could be seen clearly from how Sherlock held his arm over his face, hiding behind it, not letting himself be seen while his yearning took over his body, not daring to look at John as he caressed him with his mouth as if this would be something sinful. And maybe it was, John thought, but it was their sin and therefore they could immerse in it fully.

"Look at me, Sherlock." He whispered, voice hoarse, licking Sherlock's wetness from his lips. _Oh this taste! This wicked, delicious taste!_ he thought to himself and he let his pleasure be seen on his face as well, when Sherlock turned his foggy gaze towards him.

"I love your taste, Sherlock." He murmured, stroking Sherlock's erection with a hand. "It's slightly bitter, but spicy and special." He saw Sherlock getting redder by his words but he kept speaking. "But you only taste like that down here. Your skin feels salty in my mouth, and I love that too. But your kiss is so much different, it's sweet, however I can still taste the brandy on your tongue. It's burning the tip of my tongue." John added languidly. "And I can even taste myself."

Sherlock's eyes shot open, his lips slightly apart.

"Would you like to know how it feels, Sherlock?" John asked, running his tongue along his lower lip. "Would you like to know, how you taste in other man's mouth?" His voice was innocent and playful, but his eyes glimmering with lust.

Sherlock's response was a light nod, but the hunger in his eyes told John how curious he actually was. With a smug smile he sat up and leaned over Sherlock. He closed his eyes for a second when their erections touched but then he looked deep into the grey eyes beneath him, his mouth open, waiting for Sherlock to take the first step.

And after a moment of hesitation Sherlock moved, his finger slid into John's hair, his head rose from bed, and slowly he drove his tongue into John's mouth, spinning it around, teasing, tasting. John joined in, moving his tongue as if it would be dancing with Sherlock's; dancing one of the most sensual dances that could happen between two people.

His palm slithered on Sherlock's neck, his thumb caressing the detective's jaw, softly, lovingly, just like how he was moving over the man, with infinite care, knowing precisely where they were going this time, because he could sense the impatience in Sherlock's moves, too.

All of a sudden, as if Sherlock wanted to justify John's thoughts, the man turned them around so that once again he was on top. John instantly folded his legs around the detective slim waist, assuming what was about to come, as he was aware of the hard manhood at his entrance. They were still kissing, deeper now, his fingers playing in Sherlock's hair, his other hand caressing the detective's smooth back.

Sherlock involuntarily groaned, as John's hand moved over his ass, pushing him down and pulling him closer at the same, so that he could feel the member at his entrance protruding harder.

Sherlock stopped the kiss and looked at him, trying to say something but his eyes told everything to John, so he just placed his pointing finger over Sherlock's lips, silencing the man. It was needless to ask loudly if they really wanted this, as the need and desire was obviously seen in both of their eyes.

So rather he just kissed Sherlock once more, languidly, while he moved the long, elegant fingers to his backside.

When a finger entered him, he gasped again, because that odd, sensual pain returned but as Sherlock started moving his hand, he felt himself burning with pleasure again. He knew Sherlock was looking at him, but he couldn't open his eyes but suddenly, Sherlock added one more finger and his eyes shot open by themselves. What he saw took away his breath.

The usual confidence, the smugness that could always be detected on Sherlock's face was nowhere. Sincere anxiety and lust mixed in his eyes and John realized he never saw Sherlock more human in his life. Like a caring lover, he looked at John and the doctor suddenly realized that he didn't want this to be just one night. He wanted this, Sherlock, to be with him every night, and every morning when he wakes up. Not just as a friend, but as a lover as well. And he kissed Sherlock again, softly, trying to give all his feelings into that one kiss.

When he looked into the grey pair of eyes again, Sherlock spoke up.

"How…" He had to clear his throat to go on. "How would you like me to…" His fingers were still moving in John, so it took him a few moments to comprehend what Sherlock meant.

He leant to Sherlock's ear as he whispered, "Like this. I want to see you while you're inside me, Sherlock."

Sherlock was kissing him as he removed his fingers and positioned himself at his entrance. But then, as Sherlock slowly drove into him, he looked into his eyes and John felt that this beautiful moment will haunt him in his dream for years. The pain was immense but he kept his eyes open, so that he could look in the grey eyes.

He gripped Sherlock's shoulder as the man was trying to get carefully deeper into him. Inch by inch be felt himself being filled with the other's thick manhood. It was painful, _really_ painful but at the same time the gentleness as Sherlock moved and the thought itself that they were joined in the most intimate way made him almost loudly beg for more.

He gave a small kiss to Sherlock then leant to his ear as he softly whispered, "Do it, Sherlock… Just… _do it_."

And Sherlock leaned on one of his elbows, while his right slithered up on John's thigh. He kissed John lightly, almost featherlike, then grasping strongly his leg, the detective shoved in him with one forceful thrust.

"Christ!" John cried up, his head falling back as he panted, gasping for air. But he wasn't the only one. Sherlock's eyes shot wide open as he buried his whole length in John.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked a moment later, as sweat trickled down on his handsome face, his voice rugged, his breathing hitching every time one of them even slightly moved.

"Yes," John nodded, smiling lightly. As their gaze connected once again, John raised his hand and brushed a wet curl aside from Sherlock's face. "And you?" He whispered, tracing Sherlock's lips with his thumb.

"Sure," said the detective, caressing John's thigh calmly with his palm.

John moved his hips and saw with satisfaction how Sherlock's head lolled back with please again. In response, Sherlock's groin bucked forward and suddenly John found himself, fervently gasping and moaning. He heard a quiet laugh at his ear and then the motion repeated itself and once again he cried up in pleasure.

Sherlock moved in and out of him, moaning with the same vehemence, his thrusts steady and powerful. John was soon thrashing on the bed, his legs around Sherlock, his hips moving in synchrony with the other man's grinding, his hands either roaming on Sherlock's lean body which was slick from the sweat, or gripping in the hard ass, pressing it down for more enthusiastic and forceful thrusts.

"How does it feel, Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, his lips pressed to Sherlock's ear, his eager voice making Sherlock drive into him even faster. "How does it feel, moving inside me?"

"Amazing." The detective answered looking once again in the navy blue eyes and John knew he meant it, because he felt the same way.

It was simply amazing how it felt as Sherlock moved in him, shoving into him, his lustful moans sounding up loudly with every eager push. His body salty with sweat, its taste lingering in John's mouth after every bite he made on the white skin. The smell of sex all around them, the sweetest scent, the mix of both of them, something he will sense on his pillow, on his whole bed for days.

His erection, weeping for release, trapped between their entangled bodies, Sherlock's manhood pulsing in him harder with every move, their raspy breathing, loud moans filling all his senses. Fingernails were dashing into his skin, teeth biting wildly into his neck making him cry same as how his lips playing with Sherlock's earlobe made the other man groan with ecstasy.

Their bodies oversensitive, sensing every touch and stroke, every bite and lick, burning with yearning, so maddeningly powerful that it was almost unbearable and still both of them craved for more, much more, for _everything_. Their passion destroying all the walls they had ever built to protect themselves, flaming fire consuming their fears until there was nothing else between them just lust and adoration for the other's body and soul.

At this one moment the world could fall apart around them, they would ignore it, because they were lost in each other, submerged in the other's ardent touches, fervid kisses and keen bites right until some maddening power got hold of their bodies making their rhythm uneven, their thrusts enthusiastic and fervent.

Their fierce cries filled the room as their orgasm reached them like a blinding white wave of intense pleasure. They were shouting with desire, but their bodies couldn't stop, the heat and power of their orgasm making them move until the blinding whiteness subdued their mind leaving both of them numb and boneless, panting, lost in the fields on sensation.

Moments could pass by, minutes could elapse, universes could perish and born again, neither of them would notice as they drifted in numbness, sensing only the other's hot, wet body.

John opened his eyes when he sensed Sherlock rolling down from him. Without the other's body he instantly felt much colder, and his first reaction was to pull him closer. But then he suddenly stopped before he could reach out.

What now? Could he even do that? All of a sudden he felt himself miles away from Sherlock, though they were still lying next to each other.

He turned his head towards Sherlock in anxiety, but he relaxed as he looked at the other man. The detective was on his side, leaning on one elbow, observing him, his usually intense gaze, now hazy, and a light smile vibrating at edge of his lips.

Fingers slid in his short hair, caressing him softly as Sherlock asked in a caring voice, "How are you feeling, John?"

John let out a rugged giggle, as he stretched an arm and started stroking Sherlock's arm with his fingertips. "Uh, I don't think I will be able to move in the next hour or two, but beyond that, fine."

"I didn't hurt you, I hope." Sherlock spoke up quietly, his voice full of worry and this warmed John's heart. He lifted his hand to Sherlock's face and caressed him with the back of his palm.

"Don't worry, you didn't." He smiled reassuring. Sherlock took his hands in his and placed a gentle kiss on it. John at that moment didn't want anything better than pull Sherlock down next to him, fold his arms around the man and fall asleep.

But then Sherlock looked at him and John noticed that his look changed. Sadness was in his eyes and John didn't understand for a second. The detective put his hand on the bed, turned around and sat up.

"Where…" John started but Sherlock cut in.

"I rather go now." He said, sitting at the edge of the bed, burying his head in his hands. His voice cold like a winter night. "You need some rest." And with that, he stood up.

John watched the man as his lean, naked figure walked silently in the room. This was exactly what he feared, that this beautiful night remains what it originally was meant to be: _just one night_. At least that was what Sherlock's cold tone suggested.

He watched the man as he picked up his clothes and walked towards the door. When Sherlock stopped at the opened door, John for a second hoped that he would turn around. But Sherlock didn't turn around. He didn't come back to the bed. He just whispered one sentence in the darkness. One sentence, which crushed all of John's hopes.

"Thank you for this night, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do believe this was one of the most lustful, intense, erotic and yet innocent sex-scene I have ever written.
> 
> I still don't actually understand how I ended up with a chapter long sex-scene but well. Next chapter comes soon, with bit more emotions and less smut. Much less smut.


	4. Chapter four - Remorse and Chemistry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure the sentimentality in the end will come through.... But it's there...

_  
_

_What is wrong with me?_

Sherlock Holmes was standing at the window staring out at London shining in the gloomy morning light. Only a few drunken people staggered on the dirty streets yet, the rest was sleeping, trying to sober up from the New Year's Eve Party they attended or simply resting, preparing their shallow mind to the new year.

"How  _dull_."

Why did people think, that the beginning of a new year changed anything in their average life? It was just a number, representing the period of time elapsed since the birth of some absurd fictional person. Why celebrate the fact that the calendar ends every year after year after year?

Two men run on the streets laughing gleefully. Even from this distance Sherlock could read in them. They were at a house party where they could smoke, fresh traces of cigarette ash on the older one; one of them was drinking beer and tequila, judging by the beer marks on his jeans and salt on the back of his palm. Friends? A couple?

Sherlock placed his hand over the cold window. Damp appeared instantly around his fingers, wetness developed under his palm.

Bitter pain slashed into his chest and his hand clenched into fist on the icy glass. What was this pain? He tried to analyse himself, searching for any internal or external bruise that could have arisen after last night. But once again, he didn't find anything. Apart from the little red marks on his skin, and some stiffness in his muscles he was fine. And still, this burning pain seemed to get worse with every minute he spent awake.

His fingers skimmed his throat as he thought of the many little red biting and sucking marks on his neck and all around his body. He noticed them in the bathroom mirror after waking up.

The absolute evidences of the night he spent with John Watson. The night, he lost his virginity.

He closed his eyes and let his head knock to the window, because the pain, once again, was getting worse. And yet, as he entered the firmly locked room of his mind-palace, recalling every detail of the previous night, his body warmed up, started boiling with the former heat. He felt John's kisses over again all over himself, his body around him, and his gaze caressing Sherlock's soul, awakening the heart he always thought he didn't possess.

However the burning bitterness in his chest proved him otherwise.

o.O.o

John was carefully walking in the kitchen. First of all, he tried to make less noise, not to wake Sherlock as he dreaded the moment he has to face the man. Secondly, his bum burnt like hell with every move.

While he waited for the water to boil for his tea, he made himself some breakfast. Spooning some strawberry jam on his buttery toast, he heard the kettle boil and swiftly turned around to switch it off then went back to his toast. If he was lucky enough he could eat his breakfast and even drink his tea before meeting the man.

He let out a small moan as he licked down the jam from the spoon, before dropping it into the sink. He was about to put the jar back to the fridge when someone cleared their throat behind him. He really hoped Mrs Hudson's voice deepened a few octaves during the last night.

"Good morning." It didn't. Sherlock was standing behind him.

His grip around the jar tightened but other than that, he couldn't move. He didn't even turn towards the other man.

"Morning." John answered trying to force some kindness or at least less anger in his tone but he didn't really manage. Which was unfair actually and he realized it just a bit too late. He was unfair to Sherlock, because the man gave him what he promised nothing more, nothing less. He got one beautiful night with Sherlock Holmes and that was it. Sherlock never promised him lifelong love and happiness, nor did he ever say that last night meant anything to him other than satisfying his curiosity, no matter what John supposed to discover in his eyes.

"How are you, John?" The man behind him spoke up again and John realized he was grasping that jar so strongly, he might break it. Because Sherlock's voice was again filled with that infinite care and John hated it.

_Oh, to hell with kindness._

"Fine." He snapped angry because in fact he wasn't fine. He was as far from fine as man could be. He couldn't eat his breakfast calmly, he couldn't even drink his tea and now it will most probably go cold, and most importantly he  _slept with his best friend_ , dammit.

No, he wasn't  _fine_. He wasn't fine since he woke up in agony because his bum ached, and his heart was filled with guilt and sorrow. He thought that after a warm shower he might get better, not yet fine, just a bit better, but it turned out that this morning was destined to be the exactly opposite of  _fine_.

He was standing under the shower, letting the calming, cosy warm water run down on his stiffened body. His eyes tightly closed as he let the water flush away all that remained on him from last night: Sherlock's scent, the sweat and everything else. But suddenly he sensed something on the inner side of his thigh. He quickly reached out and his fingers came into contact with some wetness which felt completely different from water. He didn't have to look down to know what it was, but he still did.

"Oh  _god_ …." He moaned because seeing Sherlock's semen streaming down on his thigh made him so dizzy, he had to lean to the cold tiles. His knees were crumpling under his own bodyweight, or maybe under the unpredictable events of last night. He almost collapsed as all the things they had done hit him,  _hard_ , right in his chest like a fist.

It wasn't like he didn't remember what had happened to them until that moment, just that physical evidence, the opalescent material on his leg made everything so real, so unquestionable and tangible. With wavering hands he held himself against the tiles, trying not to bend under the crushing pain in his chest.

"Oh geez, what have we done?!" He whined. How will he ever look Sherlock in the eyes again, after what they did last night, after how the detective looked at him, while moving deep inside him, filling John with his long, rigid member?

So no, he was far away from  _fine_. Fine was the only thing he didn't feel right now. Sleeping with Sherlock Holmes was one of the biggest mistakes in his life, no matter how much he relished the feeling of being with the man, it simply shouldn't have happened. He was now like a drug addict, constantly in great need for more.

"John, are you in any pain?" Sounded up the deep, caring voice once again not so far away from him. John realized he must have been silently standing at the sink with the bottle of jam in his vehemently trembling right.

Suddenly the jar surrendered and broke into numerous, sharp pieces. Sherlock was right at that moment next to him, trying to get a hold of his strawberry covered palm, but John tried to resist as much as possible.

"Shit, I'm fine…" John mumbled through gritted teeth, shaking down the jam from his hand, trying to get away from the detective. He couldn't look at Sherlock though last night he wasn't able to take his eyes off the man.

"You're bleeding, John," Sherlock stated, and once again John got upset. He didn't need the man all kind now, when last night he just walked out of his room after fucking the life out of him. He tried to shake the detective's hand off of his arm however in vain as Sherlock just wanted to help, he didn't know, couldn't understand, that he was the last thing John wanted to see right now.

"That's just jam!" He barked annoyed but Sherlock clasped his hand, hold it up and unexpectedly put it in his mouth, licking down the remainder strawberry jam.

John froze in the middle of his struggling as Sherlock held his still shuddering hand, and his finger between his lips, his wet tongue sliding on it.

Their look connected and for a second even the world seemed to stop. Then everything went twice as fast as usual.

Without a warning, Sherlock's hand was in on his neck, pulling him a heated kiss, his right skimming John's chest, fingers clutching into his shirt. Sherlock's strawberry tasting tongue darted into John's hungry mouth and the good doctor moaned at the sensation.

With his hand around Sherlock's waist and fingers tangling in the black curls he turned them around, crushing Sherlock's body to the counter. He didn't have time to think; he in fact, didn't even want to think as he slid his lips over Sherlock's curved neck, biting on it ardently.

No, he still didn't want to think, when he grasped Sherlock's shirt and instead of unbuttoning it, he simply ripped it apart, so that he could touch the white skin as soon as possible.

Sherlock's head fell back as John let his hands roam on the smooth chest, his thumbs skimming roughly the detective's erected nipples. His lips returned to Sherlock's mouth, his teeth nipping on the soft pink lips.

Now,  _now_  he was fine. Now, when he was slowly sliding the purple, silky shirt down on Sherlock's shoulders and arms, letting it fall to the ground. Now, when his hands were once again sliding on the detective's back, while Sherlock was kissing him with passion. Now, when Sherlock was, once again, in his arm.

With a swift motion John found himself once more pressed to the counter while Sherlock's elegant fingers were fiddling with the button and zipper on the doctor's pants, while he leaned to John's ear.

"I'm sorry, John. I need to… Just this once…" He whimpered, driving his lips along the edge of John's earlap.

_Sorry for wha-_

John couldn't even finish the thought in his head, as Sherlock all of a sudden fall to his knees and tore down John's pants and boxers, and he was already holding John's erection in his hands, and then John's world went numb again as the wet lips enclosed his manhood.

He looked down at Sherlock, whose mouth was enthusiastically moving on him and he could almost come just by the sight of the detective kneeling in front of him, his erection disappearing between the gorgeous lips, the man's sharp cheekbones almost piercing his flushed skin, his bright grey eyes fixed on John, his defiant gaze penetrating deeply into John's heart.

John grabbed Sherlock by his hair as he thrust in the other man's mouth determinedly and Sherlock took him in fully without any resistance. The long fingers enfolded around his balls, stroking them roughly.

Suddenly John found himself on the verge; he couldn't endure the sweet pleasure much longer. The impassioned sucking on his erection, the frantic licks of the velvet tongue made him cry feverishly as he shot his seed in Sherlock's mouth.

The air instantly seemed to get colder as Sherlock moved away from him. John could feel as Sherlock tucked his manhood back and pulled his clothes back on him however he didn't dare open his eyes. He just couldn't bear to see Sherlock go out of the room again, and he somehow suspected that was exactly about to happen.

As he was leaning against the counter, panting heavily, his eyes closed, warm breathe tickled his ear, and he hoped that Sherlock would say something, because anything would be better than this dreadful silence.

When he finally gathered his courage and looked around, he was already alone in the kitchen.

o.O.o

Sherlock desperately stormed in his room. The door behind him closed with a loud bang.

The burning pain returned to his heart once again, he was rubbing his clenched fist against his naked chest, trying to make the pain go away. He forgot his shirt, but it didn't matter, it was ripped anyway. That was his favourite shirt actually, but somehow he couldn't get angry of John.

Why was he suddenly acting like this? Something must have happened to his system, otherwise he wouldn't feel this heat. No, something must have infected him, a virus or something. His right mind would never let him do all these lustful acts he committed in the last few hours.

There has to be something, an indicator what awoke this yearning desire in him.

He was walking fast up and down in his room, mumbling incomprehensive syllables, his hands involuntarily moving as his mind was racing around all the possibilities.

Was it the alcohol? It couldn't be, he wasn't drunk now. Wasn't he? They were drinking Vieille Reserve last night, right? 40% alcohol content, they drank about 2 dl, taking his age and weight into consideration that means his blood alcohol level was 0.127, which takes 8.5 hours for his system to decompose.

He checked the time. 9 o'clock in the morning. But if he took into account that he had sex with John, that reduced the decomposing period to-

He stopped suddenly, his hands floating in the air next to him.

" _John_."

_No._

But that was the only possible-

_No._

He shook his head and looked aside, right at his bed. He recalled what happened between John and him last night; he remembered every tiny detail, every sensation and every touch, every languid kiss and all the fervent bites. He let his finger run over the red marks on his neck and he observed his own reactions carefully now.

"That can't happen." He whispered with eyes wide open.

He went into his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.

Dilated pupils.

"No, no, no Sherlock, think! This isn't a  _game_!"

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, calming himself down. When his heartbeat returned to its normal level he opened his eyes again, and looked at the red marks on his body. He let the pictures from last night flood his mind again, he let himself be swallowed by all the feelings he had then and just now in the kitchen.

Elevated pulse.

Dry mouth.

Sweating.

Could this even happen to him? He clasped the edge of the sink and he stared into his reflection's eyes. His irises were still dilated, though it wasn't dark in the room.  _Serotonin, Dopamine,_ Adrenaline, Vasopressin and Oxytocin racing in his veins, producing the physical symptoms of love but there was something else, something more, right?

The pain. The bitter burning pain. He didn't feel it anymore.

And then suddenly he remembered when he felt it before. His eyes slowly closed down as he recalled the night when Moriarty captured John. He felt this bitterness right after that event. He couldn't sleep, it was in the middle of the night and he was playing a piece from Edvin Marton, the Art on Ice, the beautiful melody still echoing in his ear. But even that angelic music couldn't ease the sorrow in his heart. For some reason he had been still worried about John, feeling tensed because of Moriarty threatened to kill his only friend and the sensation didn't disappear. But then John showed up behind him and when the good doctor drove his arms around him every problem, every bitter feeling seemed to vanish as if it never even existed.

"I'm in  _love_  with John." he said to his reflection and felt a rush of adrenalin shot through his system. And with that something calming and relaxing invaded his mind, something warm surrounded his heart.

He tried to shake down the feeling, with simple chemistry he could deal with. But oh, this was something else, something more.

He took one more glance at himself then washed his face. Drying of the cold water with a soft white towel he walked back to the room. On his bed, folded, there was his favourite purple shirt with a piece of paper on top.

He took his shirt in one hand, and the note in the other. As he read what it said, the previous warmth and deep affection instantly returned.

The shirt and the note fell out of his hands as he resolutely started walking towards the door. A small smile played on his lips as he left the room.

The tiny letter slithered to the carpet face-up. There were two sentences written by an elegant handwriting:

"Sorry for you shirt. I sew back the buttons."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think, should I go on? Be my "conductor of light".


	5. Insecurity and Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead. Let's have another chapter.
> 
> Drama, drama, drama at Baker street. But hey, at least I'm updating. :3 Sorry.  
> Also, still no beta reading, sorry about that, if anyone knows a good beta, please let me know. I'm trying to find someone, but they are not replying ._.

John stepped out to the cold air, letting the door shot behind him. He tightened the scarf around his neck and rushed away from the house that haunted him now. He let his feet guide him through London, which now was much quieter than usually. Just a few numbers of cars were driving near him, distant noises of ambulances or fire trucks sounded up somewhere in the heart of the city.

He realized that even though his hands were resting in his jacket pockets, they were cold and numb, not just because icy cold wind swept through the streets but also because they were clenched in tight fists. He rubbed his fingers together and breathed on them but it was in vain. He knew he should not have left Baker Street on such a hurry but-

No, he would not allow himself to think about _him_ , not yet; he was not ready to face his situation yet.

He looked around, searching for a café or a pub, anything really, where he could buy a hot cup of tea to warm up his frozen fingers. Where is a Starbucks, when you actually _need_ one? Usually there was one on every corner, but not now, of course, when John badly needed something to make this day just a bit better.

Hoping, he’d walked past one and just did not notice, he looked back and as he watched the shops and buildings, he realized this was one of their favourite routes on their late night strolls. He quickly turned on his heels and almost run towards the closest street, angry of himself. He walked persistently in, knowing they had never been here together before and hoped that it was not a dead end.

Seemed like his luck was returning because it was not indeed a dead end, but let to another, even smaller path, winding among typical houses of London, leading him to an unfamiliar area.

He slowed down and peaked in one of the windows, that was lit, even though it was still early in the morning. He saw a young woman getting ready for the first day of the year, wearing a kimono like bathrobe, making coffee. Suddenly a man walked in and drove his hands around her. She chuckled when he kissed onto her neck and turned around to welcome or reward him with a proper kiss. They kissed sweetly and everything about them seemed just so perfectly normal, it hurt John’s eyes.

Then the man looked up and smiled brightly at his wife. He noticed John and the happiness disappeared from his face within seconds. He came towards the windows but John already was walking away, fast as he could, not wanting to be seen as a stalker, who invaded the life of strangers. He felt ashamed of himself as he looked back for a second, he almost considered walking back and apologizing, but that would be stupid, the act of a true idiot, just like sewing back buttons on a ripped shirt.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He concentrated on the cold, which now reached his bones, making him shiver and shake from the inside. Once again, he looked around to find a place he could buy a cup of tea, and was happy to see a bar, already (or still) open.

He rushed up the few stairs and opened the door. He stepped in a comfortably warm room, with only two people in it. One was a most likely drunk man or maybe he was just sleepy, sitting at a corner table watching the telly through half-lidded eyes. His glass was filled with golden liquid; he sipped from it, while he eyed John coming in the pub. He turned back towards the news and drove a hand through his thick, black hair. A bitter sigh escaped from his dry lips, bitter from regrets and disappointment. Maybe it was John’s imagination, looked like recently he tend to imagine things that were not entirely the way he thought.

“Morning!” The young girl behind the counter greeted him with a smile. “What can I give you?”

“Tea, for take away, if that’s possible.” John was surprised by his voice, it was bitter and broken.

The girl prepared his tea in a brown paper cup and snapped the plastic lid on it without a word. He paid for it, and waved for her that she could keep the change. She smiled, bright eyed and nice as she said, “Thanks. Happy New Year.”

John huffed and almost broke in a hysterical laugh. “Sure, you too.”

He left the pub, holding the cup tightly in his hands.

“Why couldn’t I fell for someone like her?” He mumbled under his breath and immediately cursed himself. He really should not been thinking about this right now, but he could not help it. How could he think of anything else after what just happened, after what Sherlock just did with him in their own kitchen.

A rush of desire and arousal swept through his whole body as he remembered Sherlock kneeling in front of him, sucking on him. It did not help either that his rear was still numb and aching from last night.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his senses. He needed to figure out what to do with the newly arisen situation. He knew one thing for sure, he could not pretend anymore, that everything was fine between him and Sherlock, that they could just go on living their lives as before, as if nothing had happened, as if they did not had a passionate night together.

He should have known it yesterday, that having sex with Sherlock would ruin their friendship but he thought he could manage it. Of course things between them would be awkward for a while, but after that short period, they relationship would return to its normal stage and events would change nothing elementary. However, he was wrong, seriously wrong indeed.

He did not calculated his feeling into this whole mess, because he was not even aware he had these feelings, but that night with Sherlock changed everything. It awakened something inside him, which he’d buried deep.

He felt selfish because he wanted Sherlock now more than ever.  Because the night they spent together broke a dam in him, and now everything was flooding out and he was caught up in the wave of this emotional mess, confused and in despair.

Was it all just about the sex? He asked himself about a million times and the answer was still a definite no.  Sherlock was his friend, his best and only friend, whom he loved more than one loved a friend. But what was this all to Sherlock? Did it mean anything to him? Was is just satisfying curiosity to him? Would Sherlock want more? Questions he could not answer on his own but he did not have to courage to talk with Sherlock, not yet anyway.

What would he even say? _Oh Sherlock, I kinda loved how you fucked me last night, so let’s make this a regular thing, ‘kay?_ Yeah, that would definitely do it. But even if he made a proper speech about this, Sherlock would most likely give him an excuse (‘ _yeah, last night was fun, but John, I’m married to my work’)_ and simply walk away. John just saw not option here that would either allow them to continue this new relationship (he refused to label it) or go back being friends. He doubted he could ever look into Sherlock’s eyes, being friends seemed impossible.

How would he live under the same roof with Sherlock, bumping against him day after day? Even if he refused to work with Sherlock again, meeting with him in the flat would be inevitable. Well, there was a solution to this but… Was he really considering the possibility of moving out from Baker Street?

He turned around and looked back on the road he came. The tea in his hand was cold now and his heart was filled with sorrow. Was this really the only solution to this mess? Moving out from Baker Street, leaving behind this life, the emotions, _Sherlock_?

He did not want that; however, he had to be honest with himself. His feelings for Sherlock were not something he could just forget or shook off. Sherlock changed his life, in more ways he could imagine. He gave John a new meaning for life, his friendship helped him through his depression and continuous boredom he felt after returning from Afghanistan. Sherlock saved him. And no matter how grateful he felt for this, he could not just stick around the man, waiting for him, hoping that one day, Sherlock would finally love him too. He had to live his own life. With or without Sherlock.

He took a deep breath and walked home. Maybe for the last time.

o.O.o

“Sherlock?” He yelled right as he stepped into the flat. There was no answer, but that did not surprise him. He rushed up to the living room, and there he was, lying on the couch, with his pyjamas and bathrobe still on, staring at the ceiling, his flatmate and friend, Sherlock _Fucking_ Holmes.

“We need to talk.” John said sternly.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked not even looking at John.

“On a walk. I needed fresh air… I needed to think.” John sat down carefully on his chair.

“About?” Sherlock murmured like not even caring.

“Well as I said, we need to talk, Sherlock.”

“Do we?” Sherlock asked casually and John felt himself getting angrier. Why was he making this even harder than it actually was?

“Yes, Sherlock we do.”

“About what exactly?”

“Well, how about the sex, Sherlock? Remember? You and me, in bed? On your desk? In the bloody _kitchen_? Do you think it’s worth talking about? Or how about our friendship that we just ruined over a night?”

Sherlock snapped his head towards him as he spoke up, “You think our friendship is ruined?”

“Look Sherlock, I’m not saying I’m not your friend anymore-“

“Good, and I still consider you as my only friend.” Sherlock said calmly, looking back at the ceiling. John jumped up from his seat and drove a hand through his hair. “I don’t see any problem, here.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You don’t-“ John hissed angrily. “You drive me _mad_!” He shouted and the words just blurted out of him, however they were true. Sherlock was maddening, and that was one of the things, he actually loved in him.

“I don’t see your point.”

“You,” John laughed bitterly, pointing a finger at the other man. “You can be quite _inhuman_ at times, Sherlock! This is serious, so would you sit up and listen to me?” John yelled desperate.

To his surprise, Sherlock sat right up and looked straight at him, his eyes filled with defiance.

“Sherlock listen,” John started quieter and calmer, “This could ruin our friendship and I don’t want that.” John said sitting down on the coffee table, right in front of Sherlock. The proximity was already unnerving, he felt himself drawn into Sherlock bright greyish-bluish eyes, as a moth was drown to a lit candle. “Look, I don’t exactly know what happened last night, or more likely, how it happened and I know we were a bit drank, and things got a bit out of hand but… but-“ John stuttered for a moment and Sherlock cut in his words.

“But it was a mistake.” Sherlock said coldly and for a moment, John realized the Holmes that was talking to him now, was not the man he slept with last night, but the one, who would throw a man out of the widow without even a second thought. His heart missed a beat as the words sunk in and he gritted his teeth to prevent desperation to bring tears to his eyes.

“Is that what you wanted to say?” Sherlock asked a bit irritated. “To forget everything what happened, and just blame it on the alcohol?”

The words like icy daggers slashed in John’s heart and he could not breathe for a moment. The emotionless manner Sherlock spoke in was almost more painful than his words. But just almost.

“Is that what you want?” John asked with slightly trembling voice.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock hissed. “You said yourself, this was just about satisfying curiosity.”

“Just about that. Nothing more.” John nodded incredulous. “You’re right. How could it be about anything else, when it comes to the _great_ Sherlock Holmes.” He added and saw his words hurt the detective because the pale skin on sharp cheekbones tightened as Sherlock’s reserved glance changed to angry stare.

“Don’t pretend this was all about me.” Sherlock hissed. “You were there too.”

“Exactly. Right beneath you.” John said emotionlessly, however he was literally shaking now from the tension he repressed.

Sherlock seemed taken aback and John bitterly noticed that he felt satisfied by that. Was this how their relationship would work in the future? Bickering and arguing with each other, fighting every God damn time?

“Which, as it seems, was a great mistake.” Sherlock replied with a sneer.

“Well then,” John said, as he leaned closer to Sherlock with a mean smile, “good thing it won’t happen again.” And as he was so close to Sherlock, he felt it again; his burning desire for the man, the anticipating need to grasp into the smooth curls and pull him in an ardent kiss, driving his tongue into that sweet mouth and tasting Sherlock again, just one more time.

“Indeed,” came the bitter retort and John immediately forgot his previous thoughts.

“I can’t… I’m just not…” He murmured jumping up and walking away from Sherlock, far where his charm would not work on John, where, even if for only for a second, John could forget how badly he needed Sherlock in his life.

He heard Sherlock take a deep breath.

“John we are both grown up men, we should act like ones. This situation, however uncomfortable at the moment, will resolve in time. We will-“

“Are you even listening to yourself?!” John almost screamed. “ _’This situation_ ’, ‘ _resolve in time’_?! This isn’t a freaking financial crisis, Sherlock, _we slept together_!”

“I am perfectly aware of that.” Sherlock said calmly and now he was standing too.

“Oh are you now, because it didn’t really seem so to me. Do you even comprehend this?” John shouted frustrated, motioning between the two of them. He barely noticed that the filter between what he thought and what he said just went wrong.

“I’m not an idiot.” Sherlock said, standing in front of the couch so leisurely that made John even more furious. He wanted Sherlock to shout to lose his usual composed form and to react with anger to John provocation.

“Are you sure?” John scoffed.

“Perfectly. However, I am not sure I can say the same about you at this moment. You overreact the situation and-“

“Say it.” John butted in.

“I’m trying to.”

“No, I mean you keep saying ‘situation’, ‘last night’ and stuff like that. I want you to say it out loud what we’d done yesterday, so that I can be sure that it registered in your perfect little brain, because honestly, Sherlock we’re facing something serious here and it seems like you don’t even acknowledge it.” John said quieter now; however not even a bit less angry.

“We slept together, John.” Sherlock answered as if talking about having dinner. “And I can assure you it did _register_ in my _perfect little brain_. You might recall me mentioning that I had no previous experience in this kind of activities, therefore inevitably, _it did register_.”

John saw as Sherlock’s face coloured a bit and he felt himself slightly blush too. Sherlock was so amazing yesterday that John almost forgot that was his first time.

“And for the record, just because I’m not shouting about it so loudly that Mrs Hudson could also hear me, doesn’t mean that I don’t understand our situation. I just think there isn’t really anything at the moment we can do to resolve it.” Sherlock said sitting down, flipping his bathroom from beneath him like a pianist.

John laughed, not happily though. “Good for you, Sherlock. How terrible of me for overreacting something as insignificant and trivial as having sex with my best friend who happens to be a man. I’m such a selfish man.” John said, his words filled with sarcasm.

“If you are worried about your sexuality John, I can assure you, one night with a man doesn’t mean anything.”

One night with any man certainly would not, however one night with Sherlock Holmes… And this was not just about one night with Sherlock, John knew this was happening basically since the day he met Sherlock. “I wouldn’t say so.” John murmured almost inaudible.

“Really John?” Of course, Sherlock heard him. “And when did your sexual preferences shift from _strictly heterosexual_ to bisexual or even gay.” Sherlock sneered.

“Well,” John started and he knew, he should not finish the sentence but the words just flooded out of him, as he was still too angry with Sherlock to control himself. “Sometimes between you sucked me off and I let you fuck me.”

The awkward silence grow longer and longer but none of them seemed to be able to break it. John watched Sherlock as he stared at him with perfectly controlled face. John could not read the man at all, he did not know what was in his mind and for a moment, he thought he did not even know this man at all.

He run his fingers over his face as he muttered, “Okay you know what, I think I need…  to be away from you for a while.” He turned around and rushed out the door. As he closed it behind him, he added, “Though it might be permanent.”

He waited for a few seconds but Sherlock did not answer. “I just told you I might move out, don’t you have _anything_ to say to that?” He asked as his final desperate attempt.

“No,” Sherlock murmured his reply as he lied down and turned towards the wall in a fetal position.

“Fine…” John whispered shutting the door behind him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was the first chapter, kind of like a prologue. From the next chapter there will be explicit man on man action here, you were warned.
> 
> Well, anyone curious about how this goes on?


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